


A Wedding In London

by mvernet, Spencer5460



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Crossover, Established Relationship, Historical References, London, Lost Love, M/M, Older Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 03:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mvernet/pseuds/mvernet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spencer5460/pseuds/Spencer5460
Summary: A Re-Boot of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s ‘The Noble Bachelor’: It's 2004 and Ken Hutchinson and his life partner, Dave Starsky have come to London for the second wedding of Ken's sister.  Soon after the wedding the bride disappears.  Ken and Dave enlist the aid of a controversial consulting detective to help them find her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

_London, England, 2004_

Older than a typical bride, Helen Hutchinson Moulton was still daring enough to wear an off-the-shoulder yet tasteful, champagne silk gown. The Stella McCartney design brushed the edges of her Emma Hope sandals. Her white blonde hair was arranged off her face, framing comely features and allowing her luminous blue eyes to stand out. She held a bouquet of sweet pea and lily of the valley low in one hand, and firmly gripped the arm of her brother, Ken Hutchinson, with the other, praying that he wouldn’t detect her nerves. 

As she walked down the long aisle of St. Mary Magdalen’s sanctuary, Helen’s gaze wandered out over the guests. Their faces wavered in the candlelight. She looked ahead to her groom, Robert St. Simon, as he stood at the altar, carefully dressed to the verge of foppishness in a high collar, black frock-coat, white waistcoat, and patent-leather shoes. His profile was finely cultured, high-nosed and serene. 

When they reached the front of the church, Ken handed Helen off to St. Simon and stepped aside, retrieving a cane from his bespectacled, dark-haired companion. They looked on together as the couple exchanged their vows before the vicar, then turned to greet the congregation as man and wife. Half-way to the vestry a small flaw in the runner seemed to grab at Helen’s kitten heel. She caught herself before she stumbled outright but lost her grip on the bouquet and it landed in the aisle.

A heavily bearded man seated at the end of the row picked it up and handed it back. The incident lasted no more than a second. The bride smiled her thanks but then quickly turned away.


	2. Chapter 2

“I may be past my prime but I’m still a damn good detective.”

Past his prime? If Ken Hutchinson had a prime his partner hadn’t found it yet. Like fine brandy, Hutch only continued to improve with age. His golden hair had silvered and, although his physique had softened, he’d grown more comfortable in his own skin. And the spell he’d cast on David Starsky all those years ago hadn’t lost any of its power. 

Starsky sighed deeply and stifled a cough. The London air was irritating the old damage to his lungs but he held off using the inhalers stashed in his pocket for when Hutch wasn’t observing him. As he turned away to cover his mouth, Starsky eyed the courtesy wheel chair provided by the hotel folded and pushed in a corner. Police work had exacted its pound of flesh from Hutch as well. Years of jogging coupled with the damage he’d suffered to his leg that his tank of a Ford had crushed in a tumble down a canyon had led to crippling arthritis. 

Hutch had his good days and bad. He usually got along well enough with Starsky’s helping hand and a teasing smile in public, and only resorted to a cane in private. But playing irate big brother all around London was taking its toll on Hutch’s limited strength, making the wheelchair a necessary evil at times. Starsky placed a hand on his partner’s shoulders and adjusted his bifocals. All he ever saw when he looked at Hutch was his beautiful, brave blond, alive under his hands as he whispered, ‘we made it partner,’ and they had. 

“I’m not saying you’re not,” Starsky said. “But this isn’t our territory, Blondie. London is a long way from Bay City. Christ, I can’t even understand the language half the time, let alone drive on what they think is the right side of street.”

Hutch sighed and looked down into his pint. When they’d first arrived, he’d felt at ease in the cozy pubs and freely enjoyed the British ales that created a bitter yet refreshing taste going down. The slower pace of the quaint villages on the outskirts of London had instilled in him a feeling of coming home to a place he’d never been before. His sister, Helen, had been right in her vivid descriptions of London and the surrounding countryside. Except that home could never be anywhere Starsky was not.

He and Starsky had looked forward to Helen’s wedding to a titled British nobleman. It was her second marriage. Her first was to a man she’d deeply loved but their life together had ended in tragedy. Frank Moulton had disappeared while working on an overseas contract as a hotel security expert. After seven years with no word, he’d officially been declared dead. Helen, however, had refused to give up the hope of finding out what had happened to her first love, and had come to Europe six months previously to follow a long-cold trail. But instead of finding information about Frank, she’d found Lord St. Simon. And thought she’d found love again. 

But now Helen herself had disappeared. After an intimate ceremony at St. George’s in Hanover Square, the wedding party had gone for dinner at the Half Moon Inn. At the table, Helen had complained of feeling ill and went up to her room, never to come back down. When St. Simon went up to check on her, he returned distraught a few minutes later. Helen was gone.

Upon questioning the staff, a maid admitted that she’d seen a woman who possibly matched Helen’s description leave the Inn dressed in a flowing overcoat and hat. Her trail went cold after that.

“I know how worried you are, Hutch,” Starsky touched his arm. “But leave this one to the local police. St. Simon is cooperating fully. I’m sure they’ll have an answer soon. Maybe she just got a case of cold feet.” 

Hutch gave him a fierce look. Starsky didn’t believe that any more than Hutch did. If Helen had half the courage her brother did, she never would have walked away voluntarily. 

“I shouldn’t have let her go through with this,” Hutch chided himself. “St. Simon may have a fancy title but what if he had more than a passing interest in Helen’s money.?”

The Hutchinson fortune was something Hutch almost never talked about. Starsky knew it was only Hutch’s distress caused him to bring it up now. When they’d first gotten to know each other, Starsky had quickly discerned the wide gap in their backgrounds: the son of a street cop paired with the son of a business mogul. But Hutch was determined to make something of himself on his own terms, rather than rest on his family’s money. 

Over the years Hutch had given most of his inheritance away to various homeless shelters and children’s charities, keeping only enough to see that Starsky had all the health care resources he needed. Hutch had made sure his partner would never have to work the streets again after his near fatal shooting at the hands of Gunther’s hired guns. 

“You think St. Simon really had something to do with Helen’s disappearance?” Starsky scrutinized his partner’s careworn face. In the dim light of the pub his years were showing. Starsky’s heart twisted in his scarred chest. He wished he could switch places with him. Siblings had such a deep affect on the heart - for both good and ill.

“No. Maybe. Hell, I don't know what to think. Helen was always so level headed.” Hutch gave Starsky a sad smile. Starsky knew what he didn't say. He was the relation best known for chasing rainbows. 

“Hutch,” Starsky began hesitantly. The situation was so unusual, and Hutch so aggrieved, that for once Starsky wasn’t sure how to predict Hutch’s behavior.

“Yeah?” Hutch took a half-hearted sip from his mug. The beverage left a trace of mist on the upper edge of his tightly pursed lips. 

“I’ve been reading this blog by a local guy named John Watson. He’s a doctor and he writes about his friend who is a consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes. Says the guy is brilliant. He’s apparently solved every mystery that he accepts.”

“Accepts?”

“Well, um,” Starsky cleared his throat. “Dr. Watson says a case has to be unusually interesting in order for this Holmes guy to take it on.” 

“What kind of detective is that?”

“A _consulting_ detective, he calls himself. Anyway,” Starsky waved away the bartender who was about to pour another draft, “I’m thinking it wouldn’t hurt to try to get in touch with this guy. Maybe he can help.”

Hutch swiveled on the stool to face him. There were clouds in his sky-hued eyes.

“This ain’t like magic or anythin’,” Starsky said quickly. “It’s not like I’m asking ya to go to a psychic. Besides, after Collandra I thought you might trying bein’ a bit more open minded.” 

Hutch focused on Starsky who had traded his standard windbreaker for a soft wool sweater. It reminded him of the belted cardigan Starsky once favored. Despite Starsky’s ignorance of fashion, he always seemed to look just right. His curls, now peppered with grey, were as long as he’d ever worn them. Since retiring from the force, Starsky let go of any pretense of conservatism and it had only enhanced his ageless appeal. 

If he got anymore open-minded, Hutch thought, his cerebellum just might fall out. And he knew he’d do anything his partner asked.


	3. Chapter 3

Starsky and Hutch were met at the door of 221B Baker Street by a pleasant looking man in his mid-forties. Intelligence and a hint of something else - challenge? - shown in his eyes. 

“Dr. John Watson,” he introduced himself. His greeting was warm yet crisp as he offered his hand first to Starsky, then Hutch, who introduced themselves in turn. 

Hutch leaned heavily on his cane as they followed Watson up seventeen steps to the flat the doctor shared with Mr. Holmes. The architecture was charmingly Victorian as opposed to most of the uniform post-modern housing the Americans had seen popping up all over the city. Several tall, stately, street-facing windows accommodated the famously finicky London sunlight. 

The main room held the usual bachelor furniture, used and comfortable. Hutch’s attention was caught by the old sea-coal fire grate and ornate mantelpiece above which hung a large mirror. His eyes then traveled around, taking in the books and artifacts that cluttered every surface, along with several items that looked scientific in nature, but were unrecognizable to the common man.

A hint of pipe tobacco from generations of smokers that had permanently steeped in the woodwork wound itself around Hutch’s senses. Without Dr. Watson’s laptop open on his shared desk, he could fool himself into thinking he had stepped into a London parlor circa 1885.

A beautiful and obviously well-used violin graced an antique stand by a window. Indeed, notes of both pain and joy seemed to linger in the shadowy corner. 

Holmes himself appeared quite uninterested in their arrival. Only the sound of Dr. Watson clearing his throat caused him to lift his head from the thick book he’d been fixated upon. He snapped the tome shut and stood stiffly, but didn’t extend his hand to his guests. Whether from rudeness or some type of non-touching phobia, they couldn’t tell.

“This is David Starsky and Ken Hutchinson, the gentlemen I told you about.” Dr. Watson introduced them, but Starsky gave a small grunt as he made the common correction. “I’m Dave Starsky, and this is my partner, Ken Hutchinson.” 

Watson smiled and graciously directed Hutch to his own comfy chair. Rather than taking a separate seat, Starsky settled on the side and stretched an arm across the back, encircling Hutch’s shoulders. He straightened his glasses as Hutch reciprocated with a hand on Starsky’s knee.

“Partner,” Sherlock Holmes repeated and began to pace in front of them. “The word has many connotations. One could be a partner in a business venture or a partner in crime. Partners as in team members or even partners in a intimate relationship,” he stopped and looked them up and down. 

Starsky and Hutch’s psychic connection tightened fractionally but they remained silent, waiting to see how far this intellectual prodigy would take the examination. 

“You’re Americans here on vacation. No, not a vacation - you’re visiting someone obviously close to you. You have excellent physiques, but Mr. Hutchinson requires a cane, telling me you once had very physically demanding jobs. Although the mediocre quality of your clothing says you didn’t make much money at it. But then again, you didn’t really care, did you?”

Starsky and Hutch traded a look, trying to decide if they’d been snagged into a British version of Candid Camera. “We were police detectives,” Starsky admitted.

“Of course. That must be how you sustained your life-threatening injury, Mr. Starsky, that causes you to protect your right side. A bullet to the chest in the line of duty?”

“Three,” Hutch stated impatiently. He was eager for the circus to end. “And it wasn’t exactly in the line of duty. Years ago, someone was hired to kill us.” 

Holmes stood before Hutch like an art critic appraising a canvas. “You’re the one who came out unscathed.” He narrowed his eyes as he studied him, but Hutch didn’t flinch. “No, not unscathed, Mr. Hutchinson. Indeed, perhaps you were the one who suffered most. Your position near your friend has a protective quality. And your eyes never quite leave him even when you’re not looking directly at him.”

Holmes turned away and resumed his pacing. “Your partner is very protective of you as well. And my dear Watson shows overt affection to you both, since he allowed you to sit in his favorite chair. How curious to evoke such emotions in old and new acquaintances.” 

“I have to apologize for Sherlock,” Dr. Watson interrupted. “He sometimes gets carried away with his deductions even when they’re not part of the case.”

“We came here to attend Hutch’s sister’s wedding,” Starsky explained. “She married Lord St. Simon two days ago but right after the ceremony, when we’d gone back to the Half Moon Inn for dinner, she said she wasn’t feeling well and went up to her room. No one has seen her since.”

“Ah yes, I did see a little write-up in the paper about it.” At last, Sherlock returned to sit in his worn leather wingback while the doctor had already settled himself in dowdy, floral printed arm chair that looked like it might have been a cast off from his landlady. 

“Tell me, how did your sister and St. Simon meet?” Sherlock inquired, as he crossed his long legs.

“Helen had actually come over here looking for what might have happened to her first husband, Frank Moulton. He disappeared in 1997 while doing work here for a client,” Hutch explained.

“Was she ever able to find out what happened to him?” Watson asked.

“No, and I didn’t want to press her about it,” Hutch said. “She’d been through so much during the years Frank had been missing. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her - to loose someone you love and not even know why.” He paused and a darkness crossed his face, like a cloud momentarily obscuring the sun. “Anyway, we were just thrilled that she’d found someone else to make her happy.” 

Sherlock sat back in his chair, tapping his shoe on the floor, while Watson posed another question. “I hate to be indelicate, but you don’t suspect the husband?” 

The interjection made it clear Watson was as much a part of Sherlock’s investigative process as his books and theories. 

“No,” Starsky responded almost too quickly.

Sherlock pitched forward in his chair, pressing his palms down on the arms. “Why not? It’s always the husband.” 

“Sherlock, please.” At John’s gentle reprimand, Sherlock sat back again. He locked his palms together and templed his fingers. 

“We used to be detectives, like we just said,” Starsky stated. “And we happened to be pretty good at our jobs. We had St. Simon checked out thoroughly weeks before the wedding.” 

“Do you actually think I’d let my sister marry some creep we knew nothing about?” Hutch retorted, but not without a shade of guilt. “The guy doesn’t have so much as a parking ticket.” He began to rise from the chair but Starsky’s steadying hand urged him back down, then recited as if from a police report:

"Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral. Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1943. He's sixty-one years old. Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the distaff side.” 

Sherlock pursed his lips to make a humming sound. “Tell me a little more about your sister and the husband who left her,” he pressed inelegantly.

“He didn’t walk out on her,” Hutch’s answer came out as if being drug through gravel. “Helen and Frank loved each other. Anyone could tell just being around them how happy they were. He never would have left Helen unless something had gone terribly wrong.”

“And what do you think that could have been?” Sherlock’s left eyebrow cocked upward.

“He could have been injured, lost his memory, or been kidnapped. Who knows? That’s what Helen tried to find out.”

“Hutchinsons don’t give up on love so easily, Mr. Holmes,” Starsky interjected with a briefest of glances at his partner.

“His company, the one that sent him over here, determined that he had died seven years ago. But a body was never found.” Hutch finished.

“Exactly what type of work did your sister’s husband do?” asked John.

“He was a security expert. His last assignment was for the European division of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel Company.”

“Is that so?” Sherlock crossed his arms and gave them a penetrating look, as if he was about to challenge their side of the story. “And when is the last anyone heard from Frank Moulton?” 

“Look, I have no idea what good rehashing the past will do. My sister is missing now,” Hutch thumped his cane into the floor. “Are you willing to help us or not?”

The meeting wasn’t going well. Sherlock might be brilliant, but he was also obnoxious and Starsky didn’t know how much of him his raw-nerved partner would be able to take. He turned to Dr. Watson who shifted in his chair and rubbed at his face, as if apprehensive for Sherlock’s response. 

Sherlock got back to his feet and walked towards the fire grate, apparently enjoying the drama he had caused; leaving the elder detectives on pins and needles and his own partner exasperated. But after a few moments he turned to face the group, all trace of haughtiness gone. 

“Not at all, my good man. I shall help you find your sister. I’m not unfamiliar with situations of this nature.”

Hutch opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock’s mobile chirped at that exact moment. “Ah! This will be Lestrade perhaps with our first clue. Right on time, unusual for him.”

As Sherlock took the call, Watson quietly explained to Starsky and Hutch about Sherlock’s consultant work with New Scotland Yard and relationship with Inspector Greg Lestrade.

“When I first discussed your case with him, he ran the facts by Inspector Lestrade to see what the police had come up with,” he said. “St. Simon said that except for a dropped bouquet, he believed the wedding had gone off without a hitch. He did mentioned a run-in with an old girlfriend, Flora Millar, who apparently caused a scene before the wedding. Lestrade said he was going to follow up on that angle.” 

“We know all about Flora Millar,” Hutch said. “Believe me, we’ve had our share of vengeful ex-lovers.”

“I realize St. Simon is cooperating with the police but my partner and I just can’t wait around doing nothing,” Starsky insisted. 

“Of course not,” Sherlock said simply as he ended the call. “It’s not in your nature.” 

Before either Starsky or Hutch could ask how he could possibly know anything about their nature, Sherlock pocketed his phone and grabbed his coat. “Come with me! The game is on!”

Starsky sputtered on behalf of his partner. “This ain’t no game to Hutch, you inconsiderate…”

John rolled his eyes, grabbed his coat and Starsky’s arm.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock led the way through Hyde Park to a section of the Serpentine River where a small group of policemen had formed a semicircle around their superior officer squatting on the bank. The Inspector was resting on his heels studying the muck of the shoreline, but then rose to greet the newcomers.

“Sherlock!” He called out at their approach. “Come see what you make of this.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to return the greeting, but merely stepped past him to the riverbank. Lestrade seemed nonplussed. “There’s a pair of satin shoes half-buried in the mud I’m sure you’ll want to examine.” 

As Sherlock crouched down to the water’s edge, Lestrade turned his attention to John Watson. “John! Grand to see you, mate. How’s that sweet little daughter of yours doin’? I’m surprised you didn’t bring ‘er along.” 

“Hello, Greg. Been awhile, hasn’t it? Rosie’s growing like a weed. Mrs. Hudson has her today, showing her off at her senior yoga class. We need to have a night out at the pub real soon.” John then introduced the elder Americans. “Inspector, this is Kenneth Hutchinson and David Starsky.”

Lestrade held out his hand to Hutch. “Mr. Hutchinson? I recognize you from the wedding photos. You’re the missing bride’s brother, aren’t you?”

Hutch nodded as he shook the Inspector’s hand. “This is my partner, Dave Starsky,” he indicated then cringed imperceptibly as he recalled the grilling he had taken from Sherlock for that word earlier, but quickly shook it off. The term didn’t need defending or explaining. In the States everyone knew their history and were so used to seeing them together that the word ‘partner’ was almost second nature. Here, however, he figured the natives could take it any way they wanted. He had more important concerns on his mind.

“I’m Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I want to assure you that the resources of New Scotland Yard are firmly behind findin’ your sister. It’s a priority and I’m personally overseein’ the case.”

Starsky reached out to clasp Lestrade’s hand. He decided he liked this silver-haired Brit, a brother cop from across the pond. And he got Hutch’s name right.

Hutch just nodded. “Starsky and I are retired police detectives from California. We’d like to be involved in the investigation as much as possible. We’ve just hired Sherlock Holmes, as well. I understand he’s consulted for your department before. Is he any good?”

John hid a grin as Lestrade responded almost drudgingly. “Well, Sherlock ‘as ‘elped out a bit on a few of my more troublin’ cases.”

“Why, thank you for your resounding confidence in me,” Sherlock came up behind Lestrade to break in. “Perhaps I could interrupt and have you do some actual police work? Do you still do that sort of thing, Gerard?”

Lestrade winced at the misspoken name, but Sherlock ignored him and took Hutch by the arm. He led him to the river bank, then reached down to pull up a waterlogged, white material that had been obscured by a low bush. He held it up to Hutch along with the shoes. "Do these look familiar?"

“Th. . .that’s my sister’s wedding gown and shoes,” Hutch stammered and left his knees grow weak. “I recognize them. She was so excited, she modeled them for Starsk and I the night before the wedding. She was so happy.” 

As many crime scenes and gruesome pieces of evidence Hutch had sorted through over the years, nothing had prepared him for seeing Helen’s soggy and tattered wedding dress. He remembered how only a short time ago she'd stood in front of a mirror critiquing her mature reflection in the same gown. To Hutch, she had looked more beautiful than ever. 

Starsky was instantly at Hutch’s side when Hutch sagged onto his cane. They remembered together another park and another Helen from years ago. She’d been strangled to death and Hutch had kept Starsky from seeing his former lover’s body. It seemed a lifetime ago. Hutch didn’t know if he could deal with seeing his sister Helen’s body like that. 

_‘Where are you, Helen? What happened to you?”_ He asked silently as he lifted his eyes to the pale blue sky.

Starsky took Hutch’s arm and helped him up the bank as Sherlock handed the wet garments over to Inspector Lestrade. He felt tiny tremors assault Hutch’s body and knew they were caused less from exertion than from the shock at seeing Helen’s wedding dress. Even in his sixties, Hutch was a strong man, never letting his physical condition stop him. But worry for his sister was wearing him down. 

Hutch patted the hand that lightly clasped his arm and gave his partner a small nod. Starsky read a thousand messages in his eyes. The continual undercurrents of ‘don’t worry about me . . . thank you for being here,’ and now, ‘I’ll never give up the hunt for my sister,’ as well.

Starsky nodded back his own silent message that needed no interpreter. 

_ooOOoo_

“We’ll begin searchin’ the river. I ‘ave divers standin’ by,” Lestrade announced after he, Sherlock, and John had examined the dress and shoes more closely .

“Will you be dredging the Trafalgar Square Fountain also?” Sherlock chided him. 

“Wha’? Of course not, Sherlock. Wha’ are you playin’ at?”

"Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the one as in the other."

Lestrade shot an angry glance at Sherlock. "I suppose you know all about it," he snarled.

"Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up." Sherlock stated calmly.

"Bloody ‘ell, Sherlock! You think that the Serpentine plays no part in the matter? It seems to me that if the clothes were there the body would not be far off."

"By the same brilliant reasoning, every man's body is to be found in the neighborhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to arrive at through this?"

"At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance."

"I am afraid that you will find it difficult."

"Really. You are such a todger!" cried Lestrade with some annoyance. "I am afraid, Sherlock, that you are not very practical with your deductions and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes. This dress does implicate Miss Millar."

"Oh, do tell, Inspector. Let me hear your brilliant deductions," Sherlock said with a sniff.

"The note.” The inspector waved a piece of paper he had extracted from a hidden pocket of the gown in the air, then read it aloud: “‘Meet me at the park at dusk. There's something you must know. F.H.M.'“

“Now my theory all along has been that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that she, with confederates, perhaps, was responsible for her disappearance. The note was no doubt quietly slipped into her hand at the door and lured her within their reach."

"Very good, Gerald," said Holmes, laughing. "You really are very fine indeed. Let me see that again." He took up the paper in a listless way, but his attention instantly became riveted and he gave a little cry of satisfaction. "This is indeed important," he brightened.

"Ha! You’re saying I was right?"

"Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly," Sherlock stated in a tone that was anything but congratulatory.

Lestrade stepped in close to Sherlock and bent his head to look. "Why," he shrieked, "you're looking at the wrong side!"

On the contrary, this is the right side."

"The right side? You're bloody bonkers! Here is the note written in pencil over here."

"And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill, which interests me deeply." 

"There's nothing in it. I looked at it before," said Lestrade. "'Oct. 4th, rooms 80 €., breakfast 20 €., cocktail 10 € ., lunch 25 €., glass sherry, 8 €.' I see nothing in that."

"Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note, it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate you again."

"I've wasted time enough," said Lestrade, as he waved to his other officers. "I believe in hard work and not in standin’ around spinnin’ fine theories. Bugger-off, Sherlock, and we’ll see who’s right in the end."

In a show of embarrassment in front of his American colleagues and fury at Sherlock, Lestrade gathered up the garments, thrust them into an evidence bag, and strode away.

Sherlock and John walked back to Hutch and Starsky and Sherlock touched Hutch’s arm briefly. The eyes that turned to him were the same pale blue as the sky. “Do not give up hope, Mr. Hutchinson,” he said softly. “We will find her.”

“There is no reason to believe your sister’s body is in this river,” Sherlock stated. “Just the opposite. The dress and shoes were hidden quickly without forethought. A woman running from her new life would not be able to do so attired in such a way. This gives me hope that she has not met with disaster but something quite different.”

Hutch was surprised at the warmth and sympathy in the man’s voice. Hutch met his gaze, turning the consulting detective’s theory over in his mind. It fit and gave him confidence that perhaps this odd man knew what he was doing after all. 

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Hutch replied and Starsky nodded his gratitude at the comforting words.

Sherlock said nothing else, just turned and called out to Lestrade. “Mind you don’t lose that evidence, Gerry.”

“I thought his name was Greg,” Starsky said.

John just let out a long suffering sigh.


	5. Chapter 5

"That was good what you did today, Sherlock.” 

Evening had fallen over London and John and Sherlock had retired to 221 B Baker Street. They’d finished the meal Mrs. Hudson had left in their refrigerator and put Rosie down to bed. They'd been sharing a companionable silence until John spoke over the keys of his laptop. 

“It was nothing, John. Just simple deduction,” Sherlock replied as he methodically stroked a block of rosin up and down the length of his violin bow. 

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” John stopped typing and looked directly at Sherlock, willing his attention. “I certainly don’t mean the way you tortured poor Greg. I’m talking about you acting like a human being for once. Showing a little compassion to Hutch.”

Sherlock’s face softened infinitesimally, just enough that only John would detect. “His sister is alive. Lestrade is wrong about her running into foul play.”

“This isn’t about you proving Lestrade wrong. Greg is dear to you and you know it, even if you do treat him like he’s a bumbling arse,” John sighed. “It’s about you truly wanting to help Starsky and Hutch. Admit it.”

“There you go with your romanticism again, John. It’s a weakness I can’t afford.” Sherlock lifted the violin and tucked it under his chin. John watched as Sherlock took the bow in hand and began to play a Bach sonata as heartbreakingly beautiful as the violinist.

Sherlock’s unique brain allowed his intellect to run wild but held his emotions rigorously in check. It made him who he was and John had accepted that fact years ago. But every now and then a crack appeared in the ice block to reveal a shadowy image of the fragile man hidden underneath the frigid facade. 

John couldn’t help his urge to pick at it.

“They’re an unusual couple,” John said above the music.

“Really, John. I didn’t think you were so naive.” Sherlock’s tall figure swayed as the melody from his violin resonated around them. “There’s nothing unusual about homosexuality.”

“Of course not. What I meant was . . .” John turned from Sherlock to look out the window. He’d had his suspicions about the Americans and Sherlock had confirmed them with ease. 

Sherlock ended the sonata and brought the violin down. “That they should be so in love yet so hesitant to let the world know?” He said softly.

John felt a slight burning of his face. Was there nothing Sherlock couldn’t deduce? “I don’t blame them, of course. Especially at their age and in their profession. I’ve sure they’ve endured a lot over the years. They’ve probably had to deflect more than just bullets.” 

He gave a little cough to clear his throat, a nervous habit that always struck him when he was about to say something uncomfortable. “But to have such such loyalty to each other after all this time, such devotion. That’s what’s rare, Sherlock. That’s true nobility.”

_ooOOoo_

Starsky and Hutch arrived at 221B Baker Street two days later at a quarter ‘til five. Sherlock had left a message at their hotel that he had some news regarding Helen’s disappearance and that he’d explain everything to them at five that afternoon. They’d fought to hold their composure for hours.

John greeted them with an armful of wiggly blonde curls. “This is my daughter, Rosie,” he introduced the toddler with fatherly pride as he ushered them inside.

Starsky and Hutch began to fuss over John’s beautiful little girl, but when Sherlock strode over to them, the child had eyes for no one else. A little shy of the strange Americans, she reached for Sherlock’s firm and possessive grip. He took her with confidence and absently rubbed her back as she cooed, “lock, lock.”

John beamed at the scene while Starsky and Hutch exchanged glances and raised eyebrows. This was a side of Holmes others hardly ever saw and the consulting detective seemed totally unaware he was exposing it.

Dr. Watson directed them to the dining table where a cold, yet appetizing supper had been set out. Starsky unobtrusively eased Hutch into one of the five arranged around table then took a seat next to him, although neither had appetites. Sherlock secured Rosie into her high chair, the tray of which was filled with age-appropriate finger food and pressed a kiss on the top of child’s head.

"Are you expecting more company?” asked Starsky.

“Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in," Sherlock said. "I am surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I believe that’s his step now upon the stairs."

Starsky and Hutch traded glances again as Helen’s new husband came bustling in, dangling his glasses vigorously. His aristocratic features morphed into a combination of annoyance and fear as he saw the Americans.

"I’m so glad you could join us," said Holmes to St. Simon with aplomb, once again overlooking the drama he must have known he’d concocted.

"Yes, and I confess I was startled to receive your message,” St. Simon retorted. “Have you good authority for what you say? That Helen has been found?"

"The best possible," Holmes replied.

“Thank god,” Hutch breathed while Lord St. Simon sank into another of the dining chairs and passed his hand over his forehead. 

"What will the Duke say," he murmured, "when he hears that one of the family has been subjected to such humiliation?"

"Humiliation?” Hutch slammed his palms on the table making the silverware jump. “My sister would never have done anything to embarrass you or your family.” 

"Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint," responded St. Simon, a stammer not far from his throat.

"I fail to see that anyone is to blame,” interrupted John with forced calm. “I can hardly see how the lady could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of doing it was undoubtedly to be regretted."

"It was a slight, sir, a public slight to leave me practically at the altar," said Lord St. Simon, lifting his head, and his narrow nose along with it, looking askance at Hutch.

"You must make allowance for this poor woman, placed in so unprecedented a position," Dr. Watson insisted, while Hutch’s head spun. What position had Helen found herself in?

Starsky laid a hand on Hutch’s knee underneath the table as the mood of the room threatened to erupt like a geyser and Hutch along with it.

"I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed and I have been shamefully used," St. Simon seethed.

Rosie whimpered at the tense words and Sherlock patted her hair comfortingly. “Sir, you will show your so-called breeding and desist in frightening the child, or I will throw you to the curb like a street urchin of old.”

“I’d be happy to give you a hand, Sherlock,” Hutch added, focusing steely eyes on St. Simon. Despite his cane, no one in the room doubted he’d shirk from a fight and perhaps still come out the winner.

"I think I heard a ring from below," announced Holmes to the men. " If John and I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view of the matter, gentlemen, I have brought an advocate here who may be more successful."

A few seconds later Sherlock opened the door and ushered in a nervous couple. "Gentlemen," said he "allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Frank Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already met."


	6. Chapter 6

Frank was a small, wiry, sunburnt man with a sharp face and alert manner. There was a tired look on Helen’s face but her step was light. At the sight of the pair, St. Simon and Hutch sprung from their seats, Starsky only a fraction of a second behind. St. Simon was the picture of indignation while Hutch was filled with stunned relief, along with a trace of hurtful confusion. As always, Starsky was a reflecting pool of Hutch’s tumultuous emotions.

Helen glanced nervously around the room backed by her erstwhile lover, catching the St. Simon’s pique and the concern in her big brother’s eyes. Helen reached out to St. Simon, but he turned away from her, his trembling fists held tightly at his side. 

Hutch moved judiciously, cane in hand, and stood between his sister and St. Simon, keenly aware of the volatile situation, but Helen laid a gentle hand on his arm showing gratitude for his support yet indicating her intent to fight her own battles.

“You have every right to be angry, Robert,” she said.

“Do not apologize to me, Madam!” He exclaimed with a jerk of his head. “You have played me for a fool. Allow me some dignity.”

Helen sighed heavily. “Robert, I never lied to you. I explained to you from the beginning how my first husband still held my heart. At the time, I thought you were very gracious and understanding and I did want a life with you. But it seems you omitted a few important things from me that I learned only days before our wedding. Like your relationship with Flora Millar and how you needed my fortune to pay off your creditors and keep your ancestral home.”

St. Simon began to shake his head in denial but a quick look at the grim faces of Starsky and Hutch seemed to make him change his mind.

“I swear to you, until I saw Frank at our wedding I had no idea he was alive,” Helen continued. “I behaved… very badly. I thought of nothing but my own happiness. I’d been so alone for so long with a broken heart I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t give a thought to what running off with Frank would mean to you, or to my family…”

She held out her hands out toward Starsky and Hutch and they each took one.

Robert continued to face away from her. He paced the room a bit, then halted in front of the fireplace, placing a hand on the mantel near where Sherlock had impaled a pile of bills into the mantel with a jackknife.

Frank cleared his throat and approached from where he had remained standing near the door, and addressed St. Simon with humble sincerity.

“I, for one, have had enough of secrecy to last a lifetime. I should have come to you, Sir. I should have talked to you man to man. But there are things no one has known until now. You see, I’ve been a guest,” he emphasized the word acidically, “in one of your MI6 safe houses for all these years. I was told it was for my own safety, but more importantly, for the sake of my family.” At that, Frank sent a meaningful look at Helen. “And at the time, I accepted their word for it.”

Helen pulled her hands away from Hutch and Starsky and began to wring them, twisting at her rings. She walked to the windows where she looked out for a minute, gathering herself. Then she faced the group and spoke.

“You see, Frank was reviewing security procedures at the hotel where Princess Diana was staying the night she died. He discovered what had really happened; what the authorities didn’t want anyone to know. It wasn’t paparazzi who ran her off the road, as everyone was told. It was a terrorist group from the Falkland Islands.”

The scandalous claim sent waves of shock through Starsky, Hutch and Watson, while Sherlock merely sighed. St. Simon remained stone silent. 

“The group was made up of young people who were mere children during the ‘82 war,” Helen explained. "They wanted to avenge their villages and families by hurting the British people - a small underground group of idealistic zealots, who ended up doing a great deal of damage. When Frank reported what he knew, the British government convinced him no one would accept the truth and that his life was danger - just like Diana’s and Dodi Fayed’s. They took him into what they called protective custody, basically imprisoning him.”

Frank seemed encouraged to see a light of sympathy grow from Starksy and Hutch’s wary expressions. “They held me in a secret compound for years,” he said. “Not harmed, exactly. Brainwashed is more like it. I became a non-person, dead to the world and forgotten by the government. I’ve only recently come to my senses enough to get away.” 

He turned back to St. Simon. “So you bein’ a Lord and everythin’, I… I didn’t trust you. I didn’t know if you had government ties. I just wanted to go home with my family. You can understand that at least, right?”

St. Simon slowly raised his gaze from the mantel, a strange glow in his cool eyes. “You expect me to believe this insane tale of espionage and conspiracy? The only thing I believe is that you’ve stolen my wife! Destroyed my future!” St. Simon’s voice shook with rage, his entire body taut as a bow string. 

When Frank took a conciliatory step forward there was suddenly a flurry of movement in the close quarters. St. Simon reached for Sherlock’s knife and spun around, lounging for Frank with a swipe at his outstretched hand. The blade hit its mark and Frank fell to one knee, clutching his arm. Helen screamed as scarlet seeped through Frank’s sleeve. 

Sherlock stepped over to Rosie’s chair and pressed the child’s head into his chest, shielding her from the fray. John stood like a sentinel in the center of the room, breathing hard and ready to take action, yet hesitant to leave his small family unguarded. Starsky jumped up in response to years of training, knocking over his chair to get to St. Simon, but Hutch was quicker.

He’d been watching St. Simon as Helen and Frank tried to reason with him, noticing his shoulders grow tense and his jaw tighten. He’d seen the whitened knuckles on the hand gripping the mantel. The knife strike barely surprised him and the big ex-cop quickly made his move.

With uncanny speed, Hutch thrust his cane up, catching the blade and sending it sailing across the room. Next, he glided his hands along the smooth wood in an upsweep motion like a batter ready to hit a homer and smacked St. Simon under the chin, jerking him upright. Then Hutch changed his grip yet again, using the walking stick to knock St. Simon off his feet. 

When St. Simon landed hard, Starsky was immediately on him, pulling his hands behind his back. Starsky automatically reached to his back pocket for handcuffs that were no longer there. Instead, Hutch roughly pulled the tie from around St. Simon’s neck and handed it to Starsky. 

“Thanks, partner,” Starsky said to him with a crooked grin as he secured St. Simon’s wrists. “You got pretty nifty moves for an old man.”

“Love keeps me young, Starsk,” Hutch responded, his smile radiant. 

John went to place a hand on his daughter’s head. She’d been quietly listening to Sherlock’s crooning, her fists curled in his shirt, far from the danger. 

“Thank you, Sherlock,” he said simply.

Sherlock lips gave a slight upturn. Maybe it was the intensity of the emotion in the room that made John reach to caress Sherlock’s cheek with his other hand. John felt Sherlock lean fractionally into his palm as he replied, “It’s what I do, John. Keep my family safe.” 

John nodded stiffly then stepped away to get his doctor’s bag. Frank’s arm needed attention. 

Starsky adjusted his bifocals and ran worried eyes over his partner. Hutch returned a scowl, knowing his partner was making sure he was none the worse for wear, but then smiled as Starsky leaned in for a brief kiss and a whispered, “always the white knight.” 

“Now that the fun is over, I have a call to make.” Sherlock announced. He went to the telephone and picked it up with one hand as he took the now sleeping baby girl into the makeshift nursery in John’s room to put her down for a nap.

“We are all fine here, Greg. But I need you to come sort things out,” he was heard to say.


	7. Chapter 7

When Sherlock re-entered the main room, St Simon was seated in the ugly floral chair, his hands still tied behind him. Starsky stood behind him with one hand pressing down on his shoulder as if daring him to make a foolish move. Hutch sat in John’s chair twirling his cane and sending daggers towards the sullen lord.

Frank was stretched out on the couch, his head in Helen’s lap, as John placed butterfly sutures along a seven inch long gash in Frank’s arm, having given him something for the pain. John didn’t have to look up to know Sherlock was back by his side. “He’s fine, Sherlock. A little shaky. He doesn’t want to go to hospital, and after what he’s been through, I can understand.”

Shortly thereafter, Lestrade barreled into the room and grabbed Sherlock’s arm. “You okay, Sherlock? John? The baby? Sure you’re alright, mate?” 

Sherlock patted his hand indulgently. “All fine, Greg, but we do have quite a story to tell you.”

Blushing slightly with embarrassment, Helen began to fill in the pieces for Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“When I agreed to be Robert’s wife, I tried to explain to him that no man on earth could take the place of my poor Frank in my heart. But I didn't want to be alone. Sometimes we older people marry as much for companionship as for love. I do care deeply for Robert and I thought I could make him happy.

“When I came down the aisle on my brother’s arm I saw Frank disguised with a bushy beard. I thought he was a ghost at first and would have fainted right there if not for my dear brother’s support. I didn’t know whether or not to stop the ceremony, but Robert motioned to me to keep silent and flashed a note he had in his hand. On the way back down the aisle, I dropped my flowers near him and he slipped the note in my hand when he returned the bouquet. When I touched his fingertips, I knew I would do anything for the man who still held my heart and soul.”

Helen looked down at Frank and smiled as she brushed her fingers through his once long and full but now thinning hair.

“We can’t command our love, but we can command our actions. Love can defy all logic no matter how hard we try to control it,” she said. Meaningful glances drifted around the room at the poignancy of her words. Those acquainted with the power of love were too familiar with the painful longing and loneliness it brought as well.

Helen paused and her face reddened. “One the note, Frank had asked me to meet him at the park. We tossed my wedding gown and slippers into the river as a red herring. It was an odd coincidence that Flora and Frank share the same initials. I admit I realized the confusion of the similar names on the note might work to my advantage. I thought perhaps the note along with my wedding clothes would lead the police to conclude I had drowned in my heart ache at confronting Robert’s old lover.”

“I haven’t been around the best detectives in California all my life without something rubbing off.” Helen flashed a contrite smile at Hutch and he didn't know whether to feel proud or take her over his knee as their father might have done when they were children. 

Frank sat up then, his normal color gradually returning. “I read about Helen’s upcomin’ marriage in the paper and I decided to take a chance at contactin’ her. Seeing Helen again was the only thing that I cared about more than my pitiful life in all these wasted years. I’m starting to think they lied to me from the beginnin’. Technically, I was a free man, but was convinced I would be killed if I ever came out of hiding. But the world has changed.”

“We took a cab to Frank’s hotel and celebrated our honeymoon all over again after all these years,” Helen finished. “But in the first dawn of my new life, I began to regret my actions. Frank and I never wanted to hurt anyone, but we were both afraid of publicity. It would be a feeding frenzy if the newspapers found out about Frank’s involvement with the Diana coverup. Even now, he isn’t safe.”

“I was so confused at first,” Frank said. He turned to John and asked shakily, “Doctor Watson? Is it possible they could have messed with my mind?”

John’s stomach turned at the disturbing idea. He looked at Sherlock holding his child. Since he’d come to know the enigmatic man, he’d learned that anything was possible. He nodded solemnly. “It’s quite possible, Frank. They might have used drugs at first to help convince you that they were saving your life instead of taking it away.”

“I became dependent on them and lost myself,” he admitted. But the look that Frank bestowed on Helen just then made John think the wanderer had found his way home.

_ooOOoo_

It wasn’t just a healer’s impulse that led John to the kitchen to make tea for his patient. He was feeling more than a little guilt at his government’s actions and the knowledge that they were all pawns in a greater game. 

“Tell me how you did it, Sherlock,” John asked when Sherlock followed him. He could feel the man behind him bursting at the seams.

“You mean find the missing bride?” Sherlock took advantage of his greater height to reach for the teacups in the cabinets above Watson’s head. 

“Of course that’s what I mean. Don’t be coy. It doesn’t suit you.”

“The clues were in front of your face, John. You see but don’t observe,” Sherlock gently reprimanded.

“So I’ve heard,” John responded dryly, as he unplugged the kettle and filled it with water from the tap. 

“Helen’s case serves to show how simple an explanation can be to a circumstance thought by all involved to be inexplicable,” Sherlock stated, as he lined the cups on the counter. “From the first it had been clear to me that the bride in question was willing to be married, yet repented of it as soon as she arrived home. Therefore, something happened during the ceremony to change her mind. What could that something be?” 

Sherlock leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms, satisfied that his domestic duties were finished. “She had been in the company of the bridegroom since they exchanged vows, something unusual had to have happened during the service, most likely coming from someone American since they are all visitors to our fair land and an unknown factor. Only someone that the bride knew well could have such an influence over her behavior in so short a time.”

Watson continued to assemble the fixings for traditional English tea - a nearly empty carton of milk from the refrigerator and sugar in a chipped bowl stored in the cupboard - while listening to Sherlock’s evenly modulated voice.

“I had deduced this much before St. Simon had mentioned the dropped bouquet, obviously a contrived device for the strange American man to slip the bride a note. Given the bride’s social standing and impeccable background, I deduced the strange man to be someone from her youth. A discretion, perhaps or… a missed opportunity. The bride had willingly gone off with the man, most likely her long lost husband whom she still loved.”

Watson followed the flawless logic and nodded his agreement as the electric kettle began to glow a lovely blue as it heated. “Yes, of course. But how did you find them?”

“The note of course,” Sherlock stated as if pointing out the obvious. “Although I couldn’t disclose my thinking at the time. Even to you. I have made it a policy not to allow sentiment to bring a mere theory to light before I have the facts to prove it. But I did feel confident that Helen St. Simon - that is, Helen Moulton - was alive once I saw the note and I did try to ease Hutch’s mind on that account.” 

“I noticed that, Sherlock. I’m sure it helped. You were saying? The note?”

“The note itself was of course important, but the information it contained was more than the scribbled words of an anxious lover. The note was written on a hotel bill. A paid bill from a fine and expensive London Hotel. It didn’t take long to find the whereabouts of the hotel and the missing bride from the overpriced food and drinks. Eight Euros for a glass of sherry. Outrageous!”

John hid a smile at Sherlock’s offended frugality. He reached for a package of P.G.Tips loose tea he had bought on sale at Tesco’s, a testament to his own economy. He spooned the tea into the chocolate glazed earthenware pot he preferred for larger gatherings then added a silver tea strainer to the eclectic arrangement of cups, milk and sugar. Steam began to escape from the bubbling kettle. John turned away to switch it off and poured boiling water into the teapot. 

“John,” Sherlock paused with uncharacteristic hesitance. “I’ve been observing Starsky and Hutchinson. The way they stand by each other, the way they cherish each other, the way the years fall away when they look at each other. . . ”

John quickly stole a quizzical glance at Sherlock, then focused his attention on the pot as he waited for the tea leaves to steep. John had been observing the same thing. Truly, it was hard to ignore. The feelings the Americans had for each other were nearly palpable. They seemed to radiate from the partners’ very pores, changing the air around them like lightning strikes. Concern, loyalty, and love that had only grown over time. 

John was grateful his back was turned to prevent Sherlock from seeing the look that must surely be on his face. “And… what have you deduced, Sherlock?”

“I want that with you, John.” The words were spoken quietly, humbly. Yet another facet of the enigmatic man. 

John was stunned to find himself being turned by strong, firm hands. He froze as those same hands came up to cup his face. He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. “We already have that, love. I’ve just been waitin’ for you to catch up. You’ve said it a hundred times yourself. You see but you do not observe …”

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock said, taking the teapot out of his hands and setting it back on the counter. He leaned in to press his lips to John’s. Their kiss was a heated promise of what was to come. A hope of a partnership that would last through the moment and into the deep well of years. 

John was loath to pull away, but their guests were waiting. Since he’d waited so long for the detective to finally solve their own mystery, he figured he could wait a few more hours. John gave Sherlock a soft smile, confident that Sherlock was keen to observed the want in his eyes, then shuddered a little at what was in store for them.


	8. Chapter 8

Starsky stood in front of the mullioned windows of their hotel room, taking in the view of the English garden below, the trees and flowers so different from those of Southern California, yet still beautiful in their own way. Hutch came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, settling his head on his shoulder like he’d done a thousand times before. Starsky sighed and relaxed into his arms, as always.

“Euro for them, Starsk,” his partner whispered.

“Why pay for my thoughts? You know them already, Blintz.”

“True. I’m fine, babe. So what? I picked up a few Baritsu cane fighting moves in the pub while you were talking revolution over your dark beer. Came in handy.”

“Retired. Civilians. Vacation. Safe. Any of these words ring a bell with you, Hutch?”

“I thought I was your white knight?” 

Starsky turned around. He placed a hand on either side of Hutch’s face and patted softly.

“You, my Hutch, have always been my white knight. But isn’t it time to put the horse in the stable and hang the sword over the fireplace? I want to protect every day I got left with you. They are mine and I want to enjoy every single second. No more heroics, buddy. I can’t take it anymore.”

“I’ve promised you everything else, but I can’t promise you that, Starsk.”

No, he couldn’t, Starsky realized. It’s who he’d always been. Who he still was. Someone who would always be willing to risk himself to keep those he loved safe.

When Hutch touched his lips to his, Starsky still felt the same old shiver. The same feeling of overwhelming gratitude at having won the luck of the draw and found his soulmate all those years ago. As they pressed their bodies together, familiar and warm, he thought what he would have done if circumstances would have torn them apart as they had Helen and Frank. Would he have been able to be happy with someone else? Feeling Hutch pull him in deeper, he was thankful that he’d never have to find out.

Hutch was the first to break away and look over Starsky’s shoulder to the window. The setting sun was starting to paint the sky in shades of red and orange. “Helen said she and Frank are going to stay here awhile. Helen really likes England - the slower pace, the history - and Frank says he needs to make his peace with what happened to him. They don’t blame the English people for the mistakes of their past. And what happened to Lady Diana is distant, though bittersweet, memory.”

“What do you think will happen to Lord St. Simon?”

Hutch’s expression chilled. “I’d like to think I could forgive him for using Helen the way he did, and for his attack on Frank, but I haven’t been able to, yet. I trust Greg Lestrade and his department will do the right thing to bring him to heel.” 

“Lestrade is a good man. He said he’d be happy to have us visit again and hear about our detective days.” Starsky ran a hand up the back of Hutch’s neck and into his fine hair.

“Now we have another reason to come back to England.” Hutch held back a sigh at the pleasure of his partner’s touch.

“So, you’ve forgiven Helen for the scare she gave you?”

“Yes, but she hasn’t stopped apologizing.”

Starsky grinned. “Do I need to apologize for contacting Dr. Watson and Sherlock?”

“No, Gordo. I forgive you for that,” Hutch said, leaving _‘I’d forgive you for anything’_ unspoken. “But they are an odd combination.”

“Ain’t that the truth. That Sherlock is a bit crazy,” Starsky pulled off his glasses and set them on the nightstand. “I don’t know how John has the patience to hang around with someone like that.”

Hutch laid his hands over Starsky’s fingers that had moved down from his hair and begun to unbutton his shirt. “You never know what combinations of people are going to click.”

“Click how?" Starsky squinted at him. “You mean, you think they might be lovers?”

Hutch pulled his own lover down with him onto the feather bed. “You see but you don’t observe,” he murmured as he kissed his eyelids.

**FIN**


End file.
